Hong is obsessed with Nut’s arms. Not just the strength—but the way they feel like safety. Like home.

It starts in the practice room.

They’ve just finished choreography drills, sweat darkening their white T-shirts, the mirrors fogged with heat and breath. Nut is laughing at something one of the others said — shoulders rising, arms flexing slightly as he wipes his forehead with his sleeve.

And Hong can’t stop staring.

Not at his face.

Not even at his smile.

But his arms.

The curve of his biceps under the fabric, the way they tense and release with such effortless power, like it costs him nothing to hold the whole world up. The way his shirt sticks to the lines of him, and how when he stretches, the muscles roll beneath skin like water under silk.

Hong looks away quickly.

But it’s too late.

Because now he knows.

He’s obsessed.

It only gets worse.

At the dorm, Nut walks around in those sleeveless black tank tops, arms bare and golden under the hallway lights. He leans against door frames, sprawls across the couch with one hand tucked behind his head — and Hong has to leave the room more than once just to breathe.

Because it’s not just about attraction.

It’s not just that Nut is beautiful.

It’s that his arms look like a place. A shelter. A soft wall between Hong and everything that hurts.

And lately… Hong has needed that more than he wants to admit.

One evening, it happens.

They’re alone — just the two of them in the apartment. The others have gone out. The windows are open. There’s a faint breeze, warm and sleepy, and Nut’s on the floor, lying on his side with a towel across his neck.

Hong sits beside him, pretending to scroll through his phone.

But his eyes keep drifting — to that strong arm resting lazily over Nut’s waist. To the gentle flex every time he moves. To the quiet, unconscious comfort in the way Nut takes up space, like his body was built to hold others.

And then Nut speaks.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, eyes still closed.

Hong startles. “No, I wasn’t.”

“You are,” Nut says, and now he’s smiling.

Hong sets the phone down. His voice is quiet. “You make it hard not to.”

That makes Nut open his eyes. His dark gaze meets Hong’s — steady, warm, a little surprised.

“At what part?” he asks, half teasing. “My face?”

Hong hesitates. Then shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “Your arms.”

Nut blinks. “My… arms?”

“They make me feel crazy,” Hong admits, breath catching. “Not because you’re strong. But because every time I see them, all I can think about is wanting to be in them. Like really in them. Held. Covered. Safe.”

A silence stretches.

Then Nut sits up slowly, eyes never leaving Hong’s.

And opens his arms.

That’s all it takes.

Hong crawls forward wordlessly, kneels between Nut’s legs, and folds himself into that waiting warmth. And when Nut wraps both arms around him — tight, sure, careful — Hong melts.

Completely.

Chest against chest. Hands clutching the back of Nut’s shirt. His face pressed to the crook of Nut’s neck, breathing him in.

“Is this what you wanted?” Nut whispers.

Hong nods. “More than I wanted to admit.”

Nut pulls him closer. One strong hand running slowly up and down his spine.

“You don’t have to admit anything,” he says gently. “Just stay here.”

So Hong does.

He stays. Curled into those arms like they’re gravity itself. His entire body softening, finally at peace, finally where it’s quiet. Where it’s strong. Where it’s Nut.

He falls asleep like that.

And in the morning, when the sun rises through the window and paints Nut’s arms in gold again — Hong will still be there, resting in the place he never wants to leave.

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